Decisions
by Alatariel Palantir
Summary: In the battle at Miraz's castle, Peter Pevensie is forced to make a decision. A life altering decision. But, like all decisions, they're solid, and can't be changed...
1. Chapter 1: Farewell

A/N: Wow, it's been a long time since I've uploading any stories/chapters. Well, I'm back! Any of you guys miss me? :D Just kidding! Anyway, I was watching Prince Caspian (the full-length movie has been uploaded to YouTube, if you didn't know) and felt compelled to do a little multi-chaptered spin-off of one of the more popular scenes in the movie. I know that there are some similar stories on like this, but, trust me, it's not going to be any carbon-copy! Also, most to all of the dialogue is directly from the scene in the movie.

DISCLAIMER: The characters belong to C.S. Lewis, while the scene itself belongs to the wonderful imaginations of Disney.

**DECISIONS**

**Chapter One: Farewell**

Peter sprinted to the gate, willing his body to go faster, harder. The gate. That's all that matter now. He needed to open the gate, less his entire plan would fail.

Would fail? Nay, it had already failed, long ago. So many had already been lost. What had happened? His plan, at least, in his own eyes, was so infallible, so perfect. Should he have listened to Caspian? Should they have all stayed in the How?

Caspian. Peter cursed the boy's stupidity, his stubbornness, his selfishness. If Caspian had only followed the plan, had only opened the gate sooner, it could've…

_We can never know what could've happened._

Aslan's words pulsed in his head. The whole lot of them ­_could've _stayed in the meager shelter of the How, _could've _waited until Miraz's army came and demolished, _could've _died of starvation and thirst. Never mind that now.

Peter finally reached the gate. Straining his already tired arms, he turned the gate's wheel, his progress, limited if any.

"Peter! It's too late! We have to hold it off while we can!" Peter didn't know Susan had followed him. He ignored her urgent, hopeless words, cast them aside. No, this _had_ to work.

"No! I can still do this!" he cried, perspiration as proof of his persistence flowing from his pores. "Help me!"

Both Susan and Caspian joined him. The gate began to slowly rise. Not quick enough.

"Exactly _who _are you doing this for?" Susan demanded.

Peter gave no response, for he knew no longer himself.

A distant sound of roaring and pounding hooves stopped the three. They watched as the centaurs' battalion raced by them.

"For Narnia!" Peter cried, drawing his sword in a single, swift motion. He, Susan, and Caspian joined the others, fighting for no other reason than life.

The battle ensued, all sense lost. Peter could no longer hear, could no longer feel, could no longer see. All was shouts and flailing weapons and limbs.

Without warning, a Minotaur, in all its might fell to the ground, at his very feet. Peter stared, unmoving, at its lifeless body.

Then, a most dreaded sound broke through his dazed stupor. He stared, dumbstruck and downtrodden, as the gate began to shut. Within moments, they all would be trapped inside Miraz's castle.

Quicker than Peter thought a creature could move, a Minotaur dove towards the gate, holding up its iron bars by its broad shoulders. The Minotaur groaned in effort.

It was then Peter knew, or, rather, allowed himself to know. Hope of a victory was long ago lost, though he refused to believe it. But seeing this Minotaur, the strength being poured out of it like a wine offering, the sensible part of him finally broke through its bondages and with it escaped a yell of defeat, of loss.

"Fall back!"

Peter ran throughout the courtyard, telling all he could, "We need to retreat, now!"

"Go!" He yelled to Susan. Without any sound of argument, Susan jumped on the back of a Centaur, nearing the ever slowly closing gate.

"Caspian?" Susan responded in parting.

"I'll find him!" Peter reassured her.

With that comfort, Susan and the Centaur ducked through the small opening and rode off into safety.

"Go! Get out! Go! Retreat!" Peter continued to yell over the din.

Caspian and Dr. Cornelius, both on horseback, entered the battle scene.

"Peter!" Caspian yelled to him, motioning the extra horse accompanying him.

Peter looked at Caspian, then urgently at the struggling Minotaur, then at his still fighting soldiers.

"NOW!" Miraz's cry echoed throughout. All stopped, all watched, as an arrow whizzed through the air, hitting the Minotaur directly in the chest. Arrow after arrow emitted from the enemy's crossbows, nearly all hitting the Minotaur, their targets.

"Peter!" Caspian repeated urgently as the Minotaur began to waver.

That's when Peter, the Magnificent High King of Narnia, made a split second, and rash, decision.

A yell of defiance released from his dry lips as he grasped a fallen dwarf at his feet, flung the wounded creature on the unoccupied horse, and slapped the horse's flanks into a gallop. Caspian, Dr. Cornelius, and the unidentified dwarf slipped underneath the gate, just in time.

The sound, quite similar to that of the air being let out of a balloon, as the Minotaur fell to the ground, crushed underneath the heavy iron bars, boomed.

The trapped Narnians shouted in anger, in fear. Peter stood, sword at his side, gazing through the gate into the clear moonlight. Caspian looked back, astonishment and disbelief capturing his features.

"Peter!" Susan sobbed. The Centaur grasped her as she tried to run back to her brother.

He continued to stare back at the small group who managed to escape. Grim determination hardened his jaw. He put up his hand in parting, in farewell. He turned his back on the free, wishing not to see their sad faces.

"Narnians!" Peter yelled, not in a tone of dismay but one of control. "To me!"


	2. Chapter 2: Black

A/N: Wow, I've updated this quicker than I thought. Thanks to all my, what, three reviewers. Yeah, people, really feeling the love here!

**DISCLAIMER: **Yes, I'm Clive Staples Lewis. I've only been dead for forty-five years, but I've decided to rise up from my grave to write this fanfiction. Yup, that's right. (It's called sarcasm, people!)

**DECISIONS**

**Chapter Two: Black**

"Peter! Peter! Peter!" Susan continually sobbed into Caspian's shoulder. The rest of the survivors spoke not, mourning silently for their High King and companions.

"We must go," Caspian declared, steering Susan onto his horse. "The others must know."

"We must hurry, King Caspian," a Centaur held the unconscious dwarf in his arms. "For not all of us fare so well."

"Yes, yes, of course," Caspian mumbled. He mounted his horse, situated behind Susan. The company went off in great haste, nothing to be heard except the rhythmic pounding of hooves and beating of feet. Soon, even Susan's sobs decreased, quieted to a small whimpering.

It seemed to take no time at all, yet, for other reasons, a century passed before they arrived at Aslan's How. Long ago, the sensible, practical Susan replaced the baffled, grief-stricken Susan, and her thoughts quickly became consumed by what she was going her brother and sister.

They walked in a grim funeral procession. Trumpkin, for that was the injured dwarf, was steadily getting worse, his breathing becoming shallower and laborious. Susan felt that there was no joy left in the world, that she would never feel happy again, that the flame that alighted on her candle of hope had been blown out by a cruel and most unforgiving wind.

"Susan?"

Her red-rimmed eyes met the dark, confused ones of her younger brother. She looked to him, speechless, at his calculating gaze, trying to analyze the situation.

"Susan? Where's Peter?" He had come to the right conclusion.

Caspian stopped his horse and dismounted, offering Susan a hand. He helped her down and left, leaving brother and sister to their own.

"Where's Peter?" Edmund demanded in childlike ferocity.

"Oh, Ed." Susan reached out and swept a stray lock of hair away from his worried face. "He's…he's…"

"Gone," Edmund finished, matter-of-factly.

Susan nodded in a sad affirmative.

"No doubt sacrificed himself for the good of Narnia!" Edmund spoke, monotonously and stone-face. His words quickly became angered. "He's always been too noble for his own good; always has to be the hero. Must I sit on his head lest he endanger himself for the sake of another? Shall I ban any and all ropes from Narnia in fear that he would stand in another's stead in the face of the gallows?"

"Eddie…" Edmund winced at his brother's most favored pet name of his. "Edmund, please, Edmund you must calm down."

"I will _not _calm down until you tell me of the foolery our brother has gotten himself into!" Edmund roared. Frightened glances from the surrounding Narnians looked warily at their distraught King.

In whisper frenzy, she relayed all the battle of which Edmund had missed out on his quest of survival. Susan, though her heart ached so, managed to recapture the horrific ordeal tearless and through tight lips.

When she was through, Susan finally voiced the question that had been desperately tugging at the back of her mind. "How are we going to tell Lucy?" she asked quietly.

After a pregnant pause, Edmund answered firmly, "Let me handle it." And, without a moment's notice, he was off to the How, where Lucy was undoubtedly caring to the returned wounded.

Susan watched him go, wondering in slight awe how her young brother had matured so much in a mere year's time.

Caspian emerged from the shadows, startling her. "If I may be so bold, he isn't dead yet. From what I've seen of the four of you in these past couple of days supersedes all that I could've imagined or even hope for, Queen Susan. You shouldn't give up on High King Peter. He may just surprise you."

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"Narnians! To me!"

The damned ceased their agonizing screams of dismay and turned. Their High King stood feet spread, arms cocked on his hips in a confident stance. Their faces conveyed only shock.

"Narnians! To me!" Peter repeated, and this time, the ill-fated Narnians obeyed. All brandished their weapons and ran/galloped over to where Peter stood on a high rock. His face was dirty, his clothes were torn, and blood led trails down his body, but he looked, well, magnificent.

Unsheathing Rhindon, Peter gave his renowned shout, "For Narnia! And for Aslan!"

The Narnians were filled with newfound hope. Liberating various battle cries, they attacked the astounded Telmarines, Peter leading them on.

The battle, though paused for a lasting moment, resumed. Tormented screaming was replaced with the sounds of iron clashing, bones breaking, men and creatures falling. All was chaos; all was madness. Telmarines were dropping, unable to face the rage and ferociousness of the Narnians.

Swords swiped at Peter, shields bumped Peter, men punched, kicked, even bit Peter, but Peter felt not. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he slain the enemy, soldier by soldier.

"Fight me, boy."

The words were spat out, dripping with venomous hate.

Peter stiffened, Rhindon fixed at his side.

"Come on, boy. Fight me. Just you and me. Prove to me that justified is the title that you so eagerly flaunt." General Glozelle, chest heaving, stood not ten yards from Peter, holding an evil, taunting grin.

"I do not have to prove anything to you," Peter responded, his back still to the general.

"What? You have nothing to prove to me? Oh, yes, yes you do, my dear boy. This is your idea, is it not? This is your plan, your failed plan? You call yourself High King. Show me, for the only high thing about you is your exorbitant amount of self-gratifying arrogance. You're what, sixteen? You're a mere boy. Who gives you the right to give yourself the title of High King of Narnia?"

Peter had had enough. Whipping around, he snapped, "I did not _give _myself the role of High King. I was appointed, as were my brothers and sisters, to govern the lands of Narnia by Aslan."

"Aslan? That lion from the stories? A boy you may be, but a bit too old to believe in fairytales, I daresay."

His cunning words cut to the core of Peter. "Aslan is not a fairytale!" he roared.

"Then how come I've never seen this lion?"

"Ye of little faith!" Peter exclaimed. He sliced Rhindon in a wide arc through the air, whipping the air right in front of the face of General Glozelle.

And so the fight began.

General Glozelle was an excellent fighter, hence his title as Miraz's General. However, Peter, being only fourteen, was an equal – if not better – match in skill, if not in age. A jab here, a dodge there; all of Peter's actions were instinctual. He no longer had control of his movements. For an incalculable amount of time, neither side held any advantage, and only a mistake would name the victor. It was only by the grace of the Lion that Peter did not misplace his footing or miss a swing.

By this time, Glozelle was growing quite wearisome of the swordplay, for he, being rather a few years older than Peter, did not have the physical stamina. But, Glozelle would not be defeated by this child. Not only had his pride forbidden it, but, due to the fierceness of the match, it became quickly clear that the conquered would not only lose the duel, but also his life. And, this is when Glozelle disregarded any amount of integrity he may have possessed.

"Männer! Kommen Sie schnell!" Glozelle spoke in the Telmarine language, which, to Peter, sounded fairly Germanic. "Dieser Junge ist versucht zu töten, der König!"

Though Peter did not understand what the General had said, it must have had some meaning, for quickly he was surrounded by angry Telmarine soldiers.

"You liar!" Peter yelled, livid. He had, well, less complimentary thoughts in his mind, but he limited it to only that exclamation, for he had his reputation as High King to protect. "This is no one-on-one combat! This is no fair match!" Peter now danced in a circle, blocking attacks from all sides.

"All is fair in war!" Glozelle weakly replied.

Peter grunted in response. Deflecting five different swords was not an easy task and required utmost concentration. Peter heard a screech of surprise as one of them fell, presumably dead. Peter gave the soldier no mind. Despite this, Peter was tiring now. Three close calls were three too many.

Saying this, it should have come as no surprise. Peter watched, as time slowed down, as a sword, somebody's sword, was aimed at his face. He turned his head and the blade whipped by him. But then, pain. Peter, surprised, looked down. A sword protruded through his right shoulder, where there was a gap in his chain mail.

Peter looked up at his attackers, an expression of perplexity masking his features. Then, Glozelle, a triumphant, wicked smile spreading across his bleeding face, grasped the hilt of a sword, yanking it free.

Peter yelled in agony, gripping his shoulder. He fell to his knees, dropping Rhindon, his hand now unable to grasp the loved sword.

_Why does it hurt so much? _Peter's pain-fogged mind could only focus on the searing throbbing in his shoulder. ­_It shouldn't hurt this much. It's only a small wound. _

Specks of black were now dotting Peter's vision. Glozelle looked down upon him, still grinning maliciously.

"Nighty-night, High King."

Then all became black.


	3. Chapter 3: Intentions

A/N: It's been forever? I've managed to not update in nearly a month! After Christmas, things got _quite _busy. This chapter's been in the workshop since the 31st of December. I will promise to try to get a new chapter up soon!

**DISCLAIMER: **C.S. Lewis wouldn't treat Peter the way I do…:evil grin:

**DECISIONS**

**Chapter Three: Intentions**

Red. He never knew pain had a color.

Peter bit back a groan. Oh, how he ached. His shoulder burned, his head throbbed unyieldingly. He wished to massage his head, or check for any other external injuries, but he daren't. His stiff muscles barely allowed him to move a finger. He tried to think, to plan, to at least understand something, anything .But, his mind was too foggy, too slow. So, he stayed there, wherever there was, eyes closed, slipping into a semi-consciousness.

The rattling of the door caught him unawares. He silently pleaded for the door to stop its racket, for it jarred his head ever so unmercifully. Peter was surprised when his prayers were answered, yet the sound of several pounding footsteps took its place.

"Good afternoon, ­_King _Peter. How are you faring this find day?" Miraz's words oozed with an evil sarcasm.

Peter did not respond, wishing now for Miraz and his men to leave him be.

Miraz did not take kindly to this. "Peter, my boy, it seems you have forgotten common Narnian etiquette. You see, I ask you how you are, you say 'quite well, thank you,', and bid me a good day also." Miraz paused to look at Peter's still motionless form.

"Don't you call yourself a King?"

There was still no response.

"Answer me when I speak to you, boy!" Miraz roared, kicking Peter in the stomach.

Peter slowly hissed in pain. Anger compelled him to rise, despite his body's protests. "Perhaps _you _have forgotten Narnian manners, Miraz," he spat in his captor's face. "Forgive me if I'm wrong, for I haven't brushed on the last 1300 years of Narnian social history, but I do not believe a courteous host shackles his guests." He shook his manacled wrists in emphasis.

Miraz chuckled cruelly. "Yes, yes, I'd thought you would feel that way. That is the reason why I was compensate for it, in order that you would not feel offended by these rather unwelcome circumstances. Come, Peter, I wish to show you something."

Before he could say anything, two armed, burly men took hold of Peter's arms, dragging him out of the damp cell.

He couldn't seem to get his feet under him. The guards practically drug a stumbling Peter through the halls of the Telmarine castle, uncaring of the various bumps and bruises the latter acquired from this ungainly journey.

Peter's head hung low; his defiant fighting long ago ceasing. Suddenly, he heard the scraping of a door opening, felt the painful introduction of the piercing sun.

"Peter, m'boy! Look! A beauty to behold!"

Peter squinted in the midmorning sun that was slightly daunted by a heavy fog. He was on a balcony overlooking the courtyard. He tried to see through the glare. A heavy, thick, yet familiar scent overpowered him. The smell of death.

"For the love of Aslan," Peter whispered. The mist cleared and a formidable sight beheld him. Dead, decaying, mutilated bodies littered the ground below. He tried to turn his head.

"Look, Peter! Look at your fellow Narnians! Look what you've done to them, boy! You were their rescuer, their savior, and look what you've done!" Miraz grabbed Peter's chin and forcibly turned his head, making him see the corpses.

"No!" Peter cried aloud. "No!" A wave of unbearable guilt and regret washed over him. The sight made him sink to his knees. He knew he had done this to these fallen peoples, _his _fallen peoples.

He shook his head repeatedly, inaudibly; tears were barely withheld. A heavy weight burdened his shoulders. His misery, his pain, his shame lulled him to grab the guard's sword and plunge it deep into his own grave heart.

_What's one more? _He thought, hopelessness echoing inside his mind. _It would be better for everyone. I couldn't face them now. Not after this._

Peter's fingers twitched slightly.

His pitied thoughts and near suicidal actions were interrupted as Miraz issued a small grunt. He was once again seized and dragged from the courtyard. Peter's head hung low; all was worthless.

Even as he was thrown in a barred, damp, locked cell, Peter uncaringly made no movement of protest. To him, death wasn't even as a great as a punishment for the sentence he was self-condemned to.

Peter was dimly aware of being pinned to a wall. He barely grunted in weak protest as his arms were thrown apart, crucifixion style, and chained there. He was unable to offer any objection as his legs were thrown apart and also chained on the wall.

Peter managed a loud groan as he came to the realization of what their evil intentions were. He was vertically chained to the middle of the cell wall. His muscles already screamed in strained agony.

"We'll see how loyal your subjects are, won't we, m'boy? How much does your brother love you, Peter? How much?"

Then, with a smiling face, Miraz and the guards left Peter, as he fought gravity and pain.


	4. Chapter 4: Demands

A/N: I'm back! And with another chapter at that! I feel really seeing how it has been nearly three months and this is only the fourth chapter. It had been laying completely idle, three-quarters of this chapter practically complete, for probably a month and a half. Last night, upon a newly founded spring of inspiration, I stayed up to tie up the ends. Enjoy!

**DISCLAIMER:** I only claim the nameless Narnians…

**DECISIONS**

**Chapter Four: Demands**

"Your Majesty, I think you should take a look outside."

Edmund looked up, startled. A meek Badger, one of Trufflehunter's many cousins, no doubt, stood in the threshold.

"Yes, thank you, good Badger."

Edmund smoothed his wrinkled clothing and stood, massaging his throbbing head. In the past few hours, responsibilities that had never belonged to him had now fallen on his teenage shoulders. Responsibilities of ensuring the safety of an entire country. Responsibilities of making sure his only brother returned home.

_Peter, how do you do this? _Edmund asked his absent High King. The stress of the whole situation was a bit overwhelming.

He squinted in the sun as he exited from the How. "Yes?" The question was directed to the surrounding Centaurs.

One of the eldest pointed in the distance. "White flags, your Majesty."

Edmund, peering intently in the specified direction, barely made out the glimmer of a flag. Listening carefully, he could even hear the pounding of footsteps.

"How many, noble Centaur?" Edmund knew of the creatures' keen hearing abilities.

"About ten, twenty at most, sir."

Edmund nodded in return.

"Do you think they're going to surrender and give us back Peter?"

Edmund frowned upon Lucy's seemingly naivety. "I don't think so, Lu."

Lucy sighed. "Neither do I."

"Lucy, I would like you to find Susan and go back into the How, in case something happens."

"But-" Lucy's protests were quickly shut off by a stern look from Edmund.

"_Please_, Lu. I don't want anything happening to you two. Oh, and make sure Caspian doesn't come out, either. I don't want him to antagonize the Telmarines."

If it wasn't for that helpless look…Lucy sighed again and took off.

In a few minutes, the small battalion of Telmarine soldiers came into view. The two frontrunners waved white flags of peace. Edmund's stomach dropped as he frantically searched for his brother, finding him not. There were no chained prisoners. No soldiers carried a bundled burden.

The troops stopped roughly one hundred yards short of where Edmund and other Narnians stood.

A familiar-looking Telmarine stepped forward. "I wish an audience with King Edmund," he announced.

"Who are you, uninvited Telmarine?"

"I beg your esteemed pardon, but I wish only to speak with King Edmund." The soldier scanned the party. "Is he notified of our arrival?"

Edmund stood at his full height, his nose rising ever so slightly. King Edmund spoke in a cool, controlled voice,

"The person to whom you so boldly address is King Edmund, appointed Narnian King by the Great Lion Aslan, may winter always cease at his triumphant roar." The formal introduction rolled off his tongue as easily as it had in the Golden Age.

The Telmarine seemed startled. It took him a moment to regain his bearings. "King Edmund, my apologies. I was expecting one much, well…" He faltered at King Edmund's quizzical brow.

"Hopefully you will agree that my age has little importance in this matter. Tell me, stranger, of your name and presiding officer."

The soldier gave a small cough. "I am Lord Sopespian, merely a humble servant under Lord Protector and King Miraz, may his days remain unnumbered."

King Edmund put on a face of mock confusion. "Please forgive me, Lord Sopespian, but if this Miraz is King of Narnia, and I do not knowingly uphold any relation to this man, what does that make me?"

Lord Sopespian, at a loss of explanation, opened and closed his mouth, dumbfounded.

"Never mind that. It holds little significance at _this _moment." King Edmund looked down upon Lord Sopespian indignantly and authoritatively, though he was over half of the Telmarine's age. "What is the purpose, Telmarine, of this, rather, untimely visit?"

Lord Sopespian seemed to have regained speech, though his poise still remained faulted. He pulled out a shield and a sheathed sword from underneath his cloak. In a somewhat clumsy motion, Sopespian drew out the sword.

Edmund gasped. "Where did you get that?" He demanded.

The golden hilt reflected in the high noon sun. Some sort of writing was emblazoned on the blade. Though he being too far away to actually see it, Edmund knew what the inscription read.

_When Aslan bears his teeth, winter meets its death._

"I have come, King Edmund, bearing news of your brother, High King Peter, as he has so intrepidly proclaimed."

_When Aslan shakes his mane, we shall have spring again. _

It was Edmund's turn to be thrown off guard, though he couldn't say he hadn't been expecting it, and his heart gave an extra beat in his chest.

"Come, Lord Sopespian, to where we can discuss this in a more orderly manner." He felt a tugging loathing towards the Telmarine, but twenty-odd years of inopportune and irritable court-holdings had taught him to be polite in a very convincing way. Edmund, not being daft enough to invite the Telmarine into the How, gave orders for an assembly of matters of warfare, to be located at a grove of peach trees roughly two hundred yards east of the How.

In five minutes time, King Edmund, accompanied by four Centaurs, two Dwarfs, a Fox, a Bear, and a Minotaur, arrived at the designated spot. Shortly after, Lord Sopespian and a party of nine soldiers arrived also, eyeing the Narnian creatures fearfully.

"King Miraz wishes you to accept these as a token to show his longings for a smooth cooperation." Sopespian offered up Rhindon and the shield, which Edmund took eagerly. For fear that the Telmarine would change his mind, Edmund sent Peter's precious items with a Centaur back to the How, where they would be properly kept safe.

"Please, sit down." The Telmarines uneasily accepted Edmund's invitation.

King Edmund began the council with assurances of peace. "Telmarines and Narnians alike, we gather not to hold heated arguments and speak words of hate, but to discuss the foresaid affairs with dignity and civility. Now, we shall officially begin this meeting on the topic of the welfare of Narnia's High King Peter, whom, as of late, is being held, presumably unwillingly, behind the gates of the Telmarine castle. Lord Sopespian, you say you have word?"

"Yes. King Miraz has graciously offered the surrender of High King Peter on only two terms."

Edmund, concerned at the candor of the Telmarine, prompted Sopespian to further explain Miraz's demands.

"King Miraz offers High King Peter (in his current state) in exchange for Prince Caspian X (preferably alive and unharmed) and the total and complete surrender of the rebellious Narnians, including all titles of sovereignty thereof, to the rightful Telmarine and Narnian King, King Miraz."

Edmund was furious, outraged, by such a preposterous demand. "Narnia will certainly not agree to those conditions!" He nearly shouted, barely controlling his ever surmounting temper.

"Then, King Edmund," Sopespian continued with ease and confidence. "High King Peter is subjected to any amount of consequence, including death, until Narnia is persuaded to submit to the above stated terms."

After a pause, Sopespian nodded to his men and stood, the other soldiers following, and were off, the council officially over.

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"_That's what I'm worried about," Lucy's timid voice broke the heavy silence._

"_Sorry?" Peter turned, looking at his youngest sister most curiously._

"_You all are acting like there's only two options: dying here or dying there."_

_  
"I'm not sure you've really been listening, Lu."_

"_No, you're not listening!" Lucy responded firmly. "Or have you forgotten who really defeated the White Witch, Peter?"_

_Peter glared at the valiant queen, not necessarily in anger, but in frustration. "I think we've waited for Aslan long enough." His tone closed the matter._

That was only a day or so ago. Peter mulled over these words in his confinement, frowned upon his own stupidity and stubbornness, sprinting with all his might to the gate. The gate. That's all that had mattered. He had so needed to open the gate.

_If only we had stayed back at the How. If only I had opened the gate sooner. If only… _Peter's continued ranting gave him no consolation.

_We can never know what could've happened. _Aslan's wise words set alight a fire in his dark mind. A glimmer of hope, snuffed out as a fresh emotion flooded his already drained soul.

Anger.

"Why Aslan, why? Why has Narnia been infiltrated by this filth? Why did those poor creatures, _your _creatures, have to die? Why am I stuck here, undoubtedly destined to the same fate? Why, Aslan, why haven't you come?" His last question came in a childish whimper. Never had Peter felt so alone, so helpless. He wasn't used to the feeling.

His voice choked, a childish whimper escaped his lips.

And then he broke. For the first time quiet sobs racked his body, silent tears trailed down his dirty face.

"Aslan." He was too immersed in himself to cringe at the whiny, desperate tone his voice had taken on.

His arms, burdened by his entire body's weight, screamed in effort. Long ago, Peter tried to dismiss this pain, and by now it had subsided to a dull, throbbing ache. The tips of his fingers were turning purple, due to poor blood circulation.

Physical and emotional strain left him weak. He could no longer lift his head, raise a finger. He hadn't eaten, hadn't drunk in…. He could've been in here for hours, days, weeks. Peter no longer had any sense of time.

Just when he thought death rested a mere arm's length away, Peter heard the jingling of keys, the scraping of locks.

Peter felt the thumping of soldiers' boots as they crossed the threshold of his cell. They smelled of sea, rum, and old blood.

"Is he dead?" One asked tentatively.

"S'hope not," a second, gruff, voice boomed. This one spoke as if with authority over the other soldier, if not in rank then in age. "Fo' yers' and m'sake."

Peter offered nothing in affirmation or contradiction.

He winced as rough, calloused hands slapped his face. As he struggled to open his eyes, the Telmarine grunted, "He's alive, a'right. You, cut 'is chains."

A few moments later, Peter fell in a heap on the floor. His body, still for so long, ignited in newfound pain as blood surged through his stiff veins.

Peter bit back a gasp as his arm was seized. He was certain his shoulder was dislocated. The chains wore his wrists and ankles raw and stung as beaded sweat trailed into the open wounds.

"Buck up, bo'. Ther's a lot more comin' yer way; aft'r Miraz is done wit' ya."

The two soldiers drug Peter from the cell and through the lower parts of the castle. Every movement was agony. As he almost succumbed to blackness once more, the Telmarines stopped.

"Bring him in." A loathed voice commanded.

Peter heard the creaking of opening doors, and the surface in which he was being yanked across became much smoother.

"Thank you, gentlemen." He fell on the cold stone, face down.

"Peter, it's been so long.

"Do not think me heartless, boy. Do not think me cruel. I am only doing this to save my kingdom. To save my son. We are not all that different, Peter, for you would've done the same, had the circumstances been reversed."

"I am _nothing _like you," Peter spat in hushed whispered, managing still to convey the depths of his vengeance and hatred towards the Telmarine in those simple words.

"And what makes us so different, my little prince? Was it not _you _who broke into _my _castle, unmercifully killing the unsuspecting, innocent soldiers?"

"It is not _your _castle, Miraz. I only came to claim what is not yours."

"Oh, so then it is yours? You have been unseen in Narnia for more than 1300 years. You abandoned Narnia. You dare call me the enemy of Narnia, while you are the traitor. You deserted Narnia, boy; your time is over. Do not think for a moment this land is still yours."

Peter's glared matched Miraz's glower with resolute defiancy.

"I am High King over this land, as long as Aslan permits and my people remain loyal."

"Well, then, it seems as if we have finally reached a consensus. For it seems the ones which you hold dearest to your heart have turned on you."

Peter neutralized his look of alarmed confusion.

"It seems King Edmund does not wish for your return. Peter, let me debrief you of a little meeting I had with the 'esteemed' Edmund."

And so, Miraz relayed to Peter the council and its more general details. The latter stayed motionless, stoic and stony-faced.

"It is my deepest apology" – though his tone offered not the smallest sincerity – "but I must prove to your brother that my threats were not just empty formalities…"


End file.
